


we are the reckless

by alexandrahadley



Category: Football RPF, Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe, English National Team, F/F, FIFA World Cup 2014, German National Team, Liverpool F.C., S.S.C. Napoli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1800070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandrahadley/pseuds/alexandrahadley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pepa Reina asks Myka Bering to bring her friend, Helena, around the beautiful city of Naples when she’s here for the weekend.  That’s what (and who) Myka does.  What she doesn’t know is that Helena is really the Helena Wells, the rising English star who is in town for a trial.  Liverpool keeps Helena for their title run; the transfer doesn’t go through; they don’t do anything except text, and then here comes Brazil.  It’s 2014 and both of them are on a flight to São Paulo, each representing their national team for the first time, each trying to prove themselves on a national stage, and each knowing their actions will shape their budding careers.  Everything seems to be going according to plan, until Germany meets England in the Semi-Finals, and it becomes clear that they could be the ones deciding who will end their World Cup dream there and then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. heaving through corrupted lungs

**Author's Note:**

> bering & wells world cup football AU | where people really enjoy watching ladies kick balls, Myka will tackle the shit out of you if you’re trying to sneak past her, and Helena does this thing when she nutmegs you without you realising

She owes Pepa a favour.  And she does know this city far better than any of the other English-speaking players on the team.

But that doesn’t mean she expects to be doing this.

It’s a week of blatant flirting, of stolen kisses at the back of restaurants, of finding spaces within the city that Myka can’t really say she _knew_ before Helena came along.  She’s not sure how to describe this.  Would it be accurate to say that Helena has charmed her?  She can’t exactly say that’s all they have – people don’t wake up with their minds filled with someone who has _merely_ charmed them, do they?  But then again, how much can two people build in the short span of one week?

Myka will never know.  All Myka knows is that Helena is that kind of person who pops into her life to introduce all the questions and none of the answers.

“You’re beautiful,” Helena whispers into her ear, her breath hot against Myka’s skin.  Myka reminds herself that Helena isn’t here to stay, that she’s merely a visitor, and that really, _really_ , Myka needs to remember that whatever they share is fleeting.  But then Helena repeats it again, “Myka, you’re smart, and you’re beautiful, and my god, you’re _here_ , you’re here with me, in this dingy bar.”

Helena bites her bottom lip and looks at her, earnest and determined and just so so _real_ , when she says, “don’t leave.  Stay.”

When she runs her fingers up and down Myka’s thighs, all that separates them is the denim on her skinny jeans, and her quickly-disappearing self-control.  All it takes is for Myka’s hand to just _uncontrollably_ dart out and touch her beautiful, beautiful, shiny hair, and Helena leans forward to kiss her.  It’s needy, and unrestrained, like it’s just the two of them without the awful wolf-whistling in the background, without the very, very real possibility of paparazzi.

When they pull apart, all Myka can say is, “you taste of beer” with a blush on her face that is most definitely _not_ from alcohol, and a giggle in her that she tries very hard to suppress.

Helena spins words with her English accent and with no sign of shame, succeeds in asking Myka to return to her hotel with her.  She distracts her with stories of Buckingham Palace, Commonwealth History and how she has an apartment near the legendary stadium Anfield.

She distracts her enough such that Myka doesn’t see the Liverpool jersey hanging on her bathroom door until the morning after. 

* * *

Marc is the one who stands by Rafa as Helena goes through trials.  She, on the other hand, is watching from the box, with an angry expression on her face that sometimes slips into wonder.

She watches, as Helena slips past the most talented of defenders in wonderful sprints and careless dribbling that somehow always works.  She nutmegs Christina once, and after training, earns a light blue jersey with the name Maggio printed on the back of it.

Her trial goes far better than anyone expects it to.  Rafa gets a call from Brenda over at Liverpool, and they talk about how and who gets to join Pepa on this side of Europe.  Pepa ambushes her at the box with questions about _that_ night and all Myka says in response is “you didn’t tell me she was _the_ Helena Wells.  You didn’t tell me she was here for a trial.  You know my policy with people on the team.”  She keeps her voice as level as possible and her expression tight, but she knows that Pepa can see through her bullshit.  It’s defiance that underlines that shrug when Pepa walks away grumbling, “she’s not even on the team yet.” 

* * *

There must be twenty-odd messages left on her phone, and Myka just ignores them all.  Myka reports for additional training amidst transfer rumours, and it earns her the respect of the Napoli fans, and the backing of Rafa.  She tells Marc it is because she is trying to improve her ability to go forward and contribute to the team’s attacking plays, when really, all she’s trying to do is to play in as many open training sessions as possible, because open training sessions means fans, and fans means that Helena can’t ambush her in any way whatsoever.  It’s not something she can do, when Brenda and Rafa are still working out the intricacies of any potential transfer.  It’s not something she’ll do.

It’s not something even the young, rash, Helena “H.G.” Wells will do.

But there are only that many training sessions Napoli can arrange, and there are only that many days Myka can train before Claudia sends down a strict order of rest.

And so, it’s exactly one of those days when Helena finally gets a hold of her.  She’s at the diner just a corner away from Stadio San Paolo when someone comes up to her, and pulls her aside.  Somehow, just from the way their fingers slip into one another, Myka knows immediately it’s Helena.

“Myka,” she starts, and immediately, Myka’s defence mechanisms go up.  For all the maturity she demonstrates on the field, she has never, ever, had to deal with something like that.  How do you deal with someone who is at once so attractive and so infuriating?

“Helena,” she replies, keeping her voice as level as possible, as though it wasn’t just days ago, when she gasped out that very same name like it was all she had to depend on.

“I’m sorry, Myka.  I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t,” she snipes back.  It’s the best she can manage, given everything.  She doesn’t blame Helena that much, and neither does she blame Pepa.  She blames herself, really.  She blames herself for falling quick and hard, for ignoring her instincts, for ignoring the warning signs.  She should have known that Helena must have been _somebody_ , what with her knowledge of avoiding paparazzi and with almost no questions on what it’s like to be one of Europe’s best young midfielders.  Helena didn’t need to ask, because she herself was one of those rising stars.  One of those people who could have anything – anyone – she wanted, and Myka let herself be lulled into this false sense of security, by virtue of this “normality” she thought they shared.  She thought someone finally saw _her_ , without her light blue kit, but worse, she’d never know if Helena had been getting close, _just so_ she could one day play in that light blue kit.

“I’m so-“, Helena tries, but Myka stops her before it goes any further.  She doesn’t need to, and she doesn’t _have_ to, put herself through this anymore.

“It was nothing, Helena.”  She enunciates each word so firmly there is no way Helena can miss the weight behind it.  “There is nothing to fix, Helena.  I don’t need your apologies, and I don’t need your answers.  There was, _never_ , anything between us.”

Myka doesn’t allow herself to see the disappointment and hurt all over Helena’s face.  Instead, she turns around, and not once, looks back.  She walks, and she walks.  And she walks the five blocks it takes to get to Claudia’s place.

Claudia doesn’t ask anything.  She makes them pancakes with maple syrup and just pretends she doesn’t hear Myka cry in the shower.

It’s the Wednesday after when the German coach calls to say that Myka is shortlisted in the provisional squad.  She’s one of the youngest shortlisted, and Pepa comes up to her with a giant teddy bear hug that is supposed to be congratulatory, but it feels a lot sadder than it should.  It’s that same Wednesday when Brenda makes it clear to the press that Helena will be staying as part of Liverpool’s title run.

Someone on the team makes a joke about how Helena was never made for Napoli’s playing style, and a player like her, was bound to crash and burn under the pressure of a title race, or the World Cup, or anything big that comes her way.  They say she plays herself out to be far better than she really is, that they’re better off missing out on her, they say that so many young players fail to live up to expectations and that there _can be no two Mykas in one team_.  She knows they don’t mean it, they say it out of pride of her achievements, out of bitter disappointment that they missed out on a key transfer target.  And yet, there’ll be this part of Myka that is desperate to defend her – Helena plays beautiful football, and she knows how good it’ll be for the club if Helena stays.  But then Myka never speaks up, and neither Rafa nor the locker room hears of her admiration for Helena’s skills.  Because perhaps above all else, there’s another part of her which realises maybe, just maybe, Helena was never made for Napoli after all.


	2. setting fire to our insides for fun

Playing on the German National Team is kind of a funny thing when you’re not _really_ German.  She’s running around in a training kit with three stars on the crest reminding each and every one of them that they represent a rich history and more importantly, a nation’s hopes.  But really, she spends most of her time living between Italy and Canada.  Yet, with a father who’s German and an ability to switch play like no other German youngster, it’s Germany that made her captain of the Under-21 National Team, and now, has offered her a ticket to Brazil.

She’ll most likely end up on the bench, because they have Sami, and she’s barely even 20.  But she’s taking training seriously, and she’s hoping to feature, even if it’s just as a substitute, and even if it’s just a match that doesn’t matter.  She’s not even going to hope she scores, because the team has people for that and besides, she doesn’t really need to impress.

Her agent told her that all the best scouts would be congregated at the World Cup, and if she played well, she could see herself leaving Napoli and heading for greater places – Real Madrid, Barcelona, Bayern Munich, it was all for her picking.  But Myka just made Vice-Captain of Napoli, and it’s a club that has really picked her out from the middle of obscurity in Vancouver, and offered her European football.  Transferring out, just didn’t seem to be the answer.

(Besides, she knows it’s the same story that every agent recycles for any young player who is lucky enough to get selected by their national team.)

And so, finding herself among the best German players, with their jokes about the Bundesliga, and their careers and their determination to do their country proud, she can’t help but wonder why exactly she is at the World Cup for.  Is it an honour if she doesn’t feel like she’s part of this team, and is it a duty when no one expects it out of you?  Since when was talent insufficient for an individual to earn a place in a team, and actually feel like she deserves it?

(It’s funny how she never thought about things this way when she played every qualifying game with a fervour that assured her place in the final team.  And it’s funny how it never fails to plague her mind now that she’s actually assured of her worth.)

You could call it self-doubt, insecurity, or just plain old nerves, but it’s something that diminishes the bright light that Myka once was, and she tries – but fails – desperately to get around it.  That is, until Phillipa came up to her one day after training, her voice laced with a thick German accent, and sat her down.

“I’ve seen you at training.  And you’re good.  Very good.  But the next time you are with the ball, I want you to look up, and see who’s there.  You’re more than just a tackler; your pass to Andréa just now was beautiful.  Now do more of that, and you’ll play much better football.”

Myka’s looking for the right words to say without freaking out in front of her Captain, and she’s trying to think of something that will sound beautiful in German – rather than something she just translated from English – when Phillipa just offers her a hand and pulls her up from the grass.

“You don’t need to speak good German to play good German football.  Give it some time.  And drink with us.  Don’t go back to rest all the time.”  She puts up her hand before Myka can object, “I know the coach said rest is important, but you’ll know when it’s time to buckle down.  Have a beer with us sometime.”

Myka has beers with the team that night, and the night after.  It’s almost a week of drinking and plenty of heroic tackles on the field when one night they’re laughing at how she can stay sober when she’s _just_ a Canadian, and then one of them whacks Erica on her head and yells “she’s German like any of us” in a way that makes Phillipa grin at her and it makes Myka feel like, all of a sudden, she belongs to a team after all. 

* * *

They’re leaving South Tyrol, and the plane is surprisingly quiet.  She can’t tell if it’s because they’re nervous, or if they’re just tired, and she- well, she just has a lot on her mind.

She doesn’t know what they are, but frankly, it’s not something she’s bothering herself with.  Helena was the one who texted her on the day of the Coppa Italia to wish her luck, and ever since then, it has been somewhat of a routine to share a few texts – whether that’d be a discussion as to whether Kate Middleton should legally be allowed to look this good just after pregnancy, or a picture of Helena beaming in the English kit.  It’s light-hearted, it’s fun, it makes Myka smile, and that’s what Myka likes about it.

(It reminds her of all the good they shared in the one week, and why Myka would fall so hard, so fast, for Helena in the first place.  It reminds her of all the good they shared, without the obligations and expectations and labels.  It reminds her of the possibility that they could just be two individuals, without the burden of fame or their careers.)

Helena never once asks more of her.  If Myka is curled up in her bed, upset over being knocked out of the Champions League, Helena doesn’t get angry that there are a few days of radio silence.  She sends over gifs of cute animals and beautiful songs and she just waits.  She waits for Myka to pull herself together, to be okay, to hide all the ugly bits of her, and she never once asks any more of her.

Myka doesn’t need to know that what they are, to know that there’s something good, and real, between them.

So she picks up her phone, and fires off a “since we’ll both be in Brazil, do you want to meet up, or something” to Helena before she thinks too much into it again.

Myka is thankful that the reply comes in before air stewardesses force them to turn off their phones.

She’s thankful because, _most definitely, Myka_ , feels a lot like a buoy in the choppy sea, and _most definitely, Myka_ , is something she can hold onto. 

* * *

The first few days fly by before she realises.  They don’t leave much time before their first matches.  Helena has to face off with Italy and their Pirlo and their Balotelli, and she well- she has Portugal and their star captain who enjoys starring in advertisements for lingerie.

She hears that England is putting their players up in a beautiful beachside hotel, with far more luxury than one might expect of a team on a mission.  She and the rest of the team, well, they are staying in a resort of their own – she’s not sure how the budget for this for was ever found, but being housed in a custom-built place, where travel to the stadiums is by helicopter, and not by bus, is a luxury designed to keep them focused.   They won’t be surrounded by fans, and they won’t be near the nightlife.  It’s a place where they’re _off time_ can be micro-managed by their coach, and regardless of how much fun they hear Brazil is, they are to stay disciplined if they are to progress.

(Leave it up to the Germans to figure how to keep their team as disciplined and as efficient as possible.)

Between on-site training and other team-bonding activities, Myka finds little time to contact Helena.  But then England’s first match comes and goes, and it’s from the distance of a television screen that she watches Helena walk off the pitch in disappointment.  They may have only lost by a single goal, but it’s a loss that highlights a difficult World Cup campaign.  If England were to escape their group alive, they’d have to beat Uruguay, or see their fate in the hands of Italy, who’d be happy to see England go.

Helena may stand straight and bright, beside her captain, as the press fields questions that undermine their credentials, and questions the resilience of a team that consistently underperforms, but Myka knows that Helena is taking this anyway but well.  She knows, from the way Helena pulls her fingers through her hair, from the way she shirks away from anything close to a compliment.

It’s just after eleven that night, when she steps out of the house.  It’s a lot cooler than she realised, and there in her t-shirt and slacks, she chastises herself for not grabbing a jacket along.  But it’s something she’s not going to risk slipping back into the house for, so she finds a corner and leans against the wooden pillar, calling.

It rings once, twice, and thrice.

It rings long enough for Myka to wonder whether she should have just left Helena alone.

But then Helena picks up with a pant and a shock and a “sorry Myka, I’m in the shower” which makes her blush in a way that she would never admit.  By the time she calls back in five minutes, Myka’s recovered enough to offer something apologetic.

“Helena, you played beautiful football today.”

She sounds defeated and disappointed as she says, “can we not talk about today?”

They don’t talk about Italy, and they don’t talk about the match.  They don’t talk about how Helena’s feet dance around the ball, or how Pirlo gave her a glance that looked a lot like amusement.  Instead, they talk about how such chilling cold and humidity should not be allowed to co-exist.  They talk about a shared, terrible craving for mushy peas and fresh mint jelly.  They talk about everything and anything but football.

It’s two in the early morning by the time Helena breaks out a yawn, and it’s only then that they realise how much they have to say to each other, and how little of it all they have actually said.

“Go sleep, Helena.”

“No,” she replies, instantaneously, and almost childishly.  Myka snorts out a laugh, and they both end up in stitches over it.

“Come on, you need the sleep, Helena.  It’s been a tiring day.”

When Helena replies, this time softer, she says, “no.”  A little pause later, it comes to Myka loud and clear when Helena says, “I haven’t heard your voice in ages, Myka.  I don’t want to hang up.”

_I don’t want to hang up because you may never call again._

_I don’t want to hang up because you may never share a laugh with me again._

_I don’t want to hang up because you and I are much better than a phone call, stolen from the night._

“We’ll speak again,” and then she repeats it again, this time more firm.  “We’ll speak again, I promise.  Trust me, Helena.”

“Okay.”  Myka hears Helena breathe out loudly, “okay.”

“Goodnight, Helena.”

“Goodnight, Myka.”

That might, she falls asleep to the beautiful thought of Helena’s voice ringing in her ears.  It almost scares her when she realises it’s something that feels a lot like redemption and hope, and happiness.  It almost scares her when she realises it’s something that’s not so different from the past.  It almost scares her when she realises that it’s something that could set her up for an even greater fall.

It’s then when she tells herself, “Helena makes me happy”, like despite everything, it’s the only real thing she has to hold onto. 

* * *

She bends down to touch the grass as she runs onto the pitch.  It’s their last group stage match against USA, and they are safely through to the next round, thanks to a series of results that made their group look far easier than anyone expected.  Half-time comes and goes, and with the Germans safely up two nil, it is decided that there was no need to risk their first-choice players to the wild tackling, the running, and most importantly, the heat.

Such a combination of factors come together to offer Myka a chance to play at the turn of half-time, and it’s the best opportunity for Myka to explain why she deserved her place here, and why, if at all, she should be moving on to a bigger club.  Most importantly, it’s the best opportunity for Myka to demonstrate that she can be an asset to the team.

Sami graciously wishes her good luck as she takes her place in the team.  Myka starts in the centre of midfield, and her first touch is a fierce tackle at Dempsey that earns the roar of the fans.  She grins, almost uncharacteristically at first, and then she reminds herself to keep her head in the game.  She puts on her serious face, passes the ball on, and spends most of the match in front of the back four.

It’s going well, and then she’s called forward for a corner.  She’s tall, almost awkwardly so, but she’s definitely not Mertesacker – she’s not at the corner to score, she’s there to make distracting runs.  So she takes her place in the box, her shoulders bumping unceremoniously against the defenders.  Phillipa raises her right hand, she runs, and then watching the ball fly towards her, jumps and heads the ball.

She tells herself it’s like any other corner she’d take at Napoli, she tells herself it’s like any other drill they’ve practised.  But then the ball hits the back of the net and everyone jumps at her, celebrating, and yelling, and just- did she just score?

The scoreboard turns three nil in favour of Germany, and Myka beams uncontrollably when Phillipa comes over and ruffles her hair like she’s just done something really good.  It’s a moment she’ll hang onto – the German fans singing their team’s name, the way she scored a goal at the World Cup, and the way her coach looks at her, like _damn wasn’t that a good risk_.

The next twenty odd minutes go on like a buzz in her head.  She remembers what Phillipa says, and always, _always_ , looks up before she passes the ball.  Once, she manages to send a thirty-yard pass to the right of the pitch, where Andrea had managed the most beautiful of runs, and there’s a shot on target that asks a miracle of the goalkeeper.

By the end of the match, they’ve had scored four good goals to finish at the top of the group, and as Myka is walking off the pitch, she claps at the fans, out of gratitude, and out of pride.  She walks off the pitch as though the field was her stage, and there is nowhere else she’d rather be. 

* * *

So apparently, if you score a goal at the World Cup, people start calling.  By people, she means scouts, she means advertisers, and she means that high school guy whom you once may have thought was cute, but had never really bothered about you.

Coach tells her to ignore the phone calls, and only take those from her agent if she must.  She answers the one from Marc, of course, and Pepa leaves her a text that hides exactly how tragic Spain’s performance has been.  Erica is more excited than her about this, and she’s forced to watch many videos of her header.  After a while, all she can say is “I need to learn how to braid my hair or something, it’s a mess”.  People think she’s funny, but all Myka wants is a bath.

All Myka wants is a bath, but then Helena calls and asks, in a whisper, “hey, can you meet me at the bar a block from the stadium?”

Myka looks once at her phone, and immediately she checks the team rules.  There’s no match for the next two days, and half the team is going out for supper anyway.  No one is going to miss her as long as she gets to the airfield in time.

So she takes a quick shower, douses herself in a general splash of perfume, and runs out to the bar.  By the time she’s there, Helena is already nursing her second drink.  The bar is surprisingly quiet, there’s no football on the television, and the bartender is an old man who pours a foamy beer.  Helena calls for two more, which he acknowledges grumpily, and then she pulls Myka close into the booth.

“I’m so proud of you,” she starts, beaming, like she’s the one scoring the goal.  Her hand doesn’t leave Myka’s and she doesn’t even pause for a second before she leans in to kiss Myka on the cheek.

(And just like that, they’re back on the same page, almost as though there was never that year in between.)

Myka blushes, and she hides it with the rim of the beer mug, and a foamy moustache.  Helena throws some napkins at her, making her clean it up.

“If you don’t clean it up, I will”, and there’s a lick of her lips that reminds Myka of how infuriating Helena really is.

“Stop it you.”  Myka leans closer to Helena, “you’re the worst distraction possible.”

(And just like that, Myka is falling for Helena all over again.)

It’s another two more beers and talk of England’s odds against Colombia, now that they’ve just managed to scrape second place; another two more beers, and talk of the possibility of Myka playing again.  Helena’s played all ninety minutes for almost all of the matches, but she waves it off with her hand like it’s nothing.  Myka smacks her every time she does that, and reminds her of how much of an achievement it is, and how Helena’s ruling the right wing of the pitch with her bursts of speed.  Helena comes back with a reminder that crosses are nothing if they don’t result in goals on a regular basis, and Myka retorts with Helena’s age.  It’s a banter that goes back and forth, and there’s a hearty laughter that resonates from their booth.  It’s a banter that is only silenced by more calls for beer, and stolen kisses in the dark corner.  It’s a banter that reminds the both of them that they should be holding on tight – that the way their hands fit so naturally with one another, that the way they find peace with each other among this madness, that the way they can make the shortest of nights feel like hope, is all what they can recreate with no one but each other. 

* * *

Helena presses the lightest of kisses against her forehead when they part.  Their fingers linger, because they hate doing this, well, they hate leaving, and god knows when will be the next time they’ll find each other like this again.  They can see the airfield from where they are, and the whirl of the helicopter reminds them of how short their night really was.

“I will see you again?”

“Of course you will,” Myka replies, almost immediately.  If she’s shy about this, she’s not sure if it even shows, because the answer comes with a determination that is virtually unmatched.  When she leans in and kisses Helena on the cheek, her arm finds itself possessively around her waist, and even when it ends, they don’t really part.

It’s only when the siren sounds for the last call, does Myka run off.  As she climbs onto the last helicopter, she thinks she’s possibly the only one still in Rio, but then Phillipa climbs up at the last moment, flinging the last of her cigarette out as the door slams shut.

“Don’t tell Claude.  He’s wanted me to quit.”

Myka nods, and spends the rest of the trip back wondering if Phillipa saw them.  It’s a nervous twenty minutes where Myka remembers there’s a reason why this sport is not known for its tolerance, and it’s a nervous twenty minutes where Myka remembers that a player of Phillipa’s stature is someone who could wreck her career.

It’s a nervous twenty minutes that forces her to leap off the helicopter once she reaches, and make the quickest possible break for her room.

But before she can do that, Phillipa grabs her by the wrist, and pulls her back.  Myka turns around to see the stern look on Phillipa’s face, and all the worst case scenarios pop up in her mind.

It’s then when she says, “you should call to make sure she’s back at the hotel, safe.”

“I will.”

She’s pretty sure she hasn’t been this happy in ages.  Not since leaving Vancouver, and leaving Sam, not since choosing football over literature, not since finding herself as the anchorman of the Napoli midfield.  Myka is an individual who is unusually responsible and far too mature for her age, and for a long time that has meant that she was more a standard than a person.  But with Helena, and with this team, she can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, she never had to stop being Myka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you everyone who has left comments, or kudos, or even just dropped by to read my writing. :)
> 
> Second, I know that England is out of the competition, and damn was that disappointing. But since this is an AU, Italy won their match against Costa Rica, and England beat them too, to slip in just ahead of Uruguay (who never stood a chance against Italy when Suarez couldn't make the lineup). Also among other things, I tried to do as much research as possible on the World Cup (like where they stayed and all that), but I'm not a detective so I'm sorry if I got a few of the details wrong!


	3. chasing visions of our future

The quarter-finals come and go just like that.   She blinks her eyes and days have passed and without her realising, they’re in the semi-finals.  Her mind has gone by in a blur, and she remembers little.  But she remembers FIFA retrospectively investigating a few allegations of racism.  She remembers the day when the helicopters went into repair and the team spent the day in the water, just wading to pass time.  And of course, she remembers Helena.

Ah, Helena.

Myka lays in bed, her computer in front of her, her hair, wet and messy as she tosses her head into the pillow.  “Hey,” she says, and Helena replies with the same word, but it sounds so different just because she has that accent.

“I thought of you today.”

“I think of you every day, Myka.”

Myka blushes, and she wonders if Helena can see it through the dullness of a computer screen.

She’s trying, she’s trying very hard.  She knows how bad Helena is for her.  She knows, because she has always chased that kind of stability that a player like her wants, and perhaps needs.  Sam was a person who played for the same club, on the weekends, and manned a stall at the farmer’s market on weekdays.  Sam was there whenever she returned from exhibition matches overseas.  Sam was there whenever she returned from training.  Sam was there whenever she played.

Helena is nothing like Sam.  No, she isn’t.

Helena is nothing like Sam, and despite that, or perhaps _exactly because of that_ , Myka can’t pull away from Helena.  She’s tried, you know.  It’s not that she hasn’t.  The day before their match against Algeria, Myka had texted Helena to say she was busy preparing for the match.  She said she had to stay focused on the pitch, and Helena understood.  Of course Helena understood.  Myka might have said she wouldn’t have been able to speak with Helena till after the match, a self-imposed twenty four hour radio silence.  She might have said that, but by the time she was done with her bath, alone in her bed with her book, she had texted Helena.

It was instinctive, wrong, and yet, just right.

Myka fell asleep at one that night, with the blue glow of her phone against her cheek.  Helena watched Myka fall asleep, and then she pressed a kiss against her phone, as though she was right there, and proceeded to fall asleep, that same blue glow, serving as a safety light that guarded them both.

“We play you next.”

She says, careful not to sound accusatory.  What she really sounds like, is sad.  She’s sad because only one of them gets to attend the World Cup final, and Myka feels like there’s a battle between the professional footballer in her, and the other part of her which just adores – _adores_ – Helena.  She’s never felt so torn before, and it comes across in her voice.

“I know.  Good luck, Myka.”  She laughs, throwing her head back, and then she continues, “well not too much luck, since I’d really like to play in the Final.”

Myka looks at her shocked.  She’s never sure how Helena does things.  She never over-thinks things.  This is not about how cruel fate has made it impossible to avoid a confrontation.  This is just about playing good football and seeing which team is better.  This is just about two players, in opposite teams, good at everything but confrontation.  Myka doesn’t ask her how she does it, because if Helena says something like _it’s not that big a deal_ , she might cry, from whatever that means.

“Let’s not talk about football.”

* * *

It’s ten o’clock one night when Phillipa walks into her room.  Myka immediately slams her laptop screen shut, her face blushing.  When Phillipa sits on her bed, the first thing she does is unceremoniously open that laptop, and seeing Helena on the other side.  It’s with authority when she says, “Myka’s got to go, her Captain needs to speak with her.”

“Righty-ho then.  Goodnight, Myka.”

“Goodnight,” Myka replies softly, and watches as Phillipa forces her laptop to shut down.  She feels like a girl who has just been caught cheating with her pants down, and it’s a terribly awful feeling.  She can feel the heat rising up in her neck, and her face turning red.  And the worst part is that she can’t dart out of there like any normal person would.

“I’m sorry?”  She starts, and Phillipa raises a hand to stop her.

“That’s enough.”  Myka bows her head down, and if this is guilt she’s feeling, it’s something she’s really not made for.

Phillipa continues, “so.  Sami isn’t doing too good with the physio.”

“She isn’t?”

“No, we haven’t told anyone, but Real has been playing her all season with a hamstring issue, and both managers would rather preserve her, than have the injury worsen in the next match.  She’s _tired_.”

“Oh.”

“Coach asked me if you’re ready to start a match.”

“Oh,” Myka repeats, but she looks up this time.  There’s excitement in her eyes for just a moment, and then she glances at the laptop sitting beside Phillipa, and just like that, her heart sinks again.

“Helena is almost certain to start.”

“She is.”

“I need to know if you can keep your head down, and not love her for ninety minutes.”  Phillipa breathes out loudly, “ninety minutes and injury time.”

Myka repeats it out loud, “keep my head down and not love her.”

“Yes.”

“I never said I love her, Phillipa.”

“I know.” 

* * *

The way Myka runs onto the pitch to the roar of the crowd, and takes her place in the starting lineup, you wouldn’t think she cried the night before.  The way Myka firmly shakes her hand with a controlled expression, you wouldn’t think Myka had cried herself to sleep in a sofa, because she had to be anywhere but near the memory of them texting while she was in that bed.  The way Myka looks across the field, barking orders, steely-eyed, you wouldn’t think it was Phillipa who found her in that sofa and carried her to her room.

She would never know what Phillipa said to the coach, and why she’s there on the pitch, starting the World Cup semi-final, but she tells herself it doesn’t matter.  Because whatever it is, she knows she needs to keep her head down, keep her head down, play good football, and remember that at this point, her team needs her more than Helena does.  Helena will be fine, and she will be fine too. 

(She can only hope that they’ll be fine.)

It’s half-time and of course, they’ve scored.  They both go down the tunnel to the locker rooms, and when Helena bumps into her, she’s disappointed at how awkward she is, when Helena smiles at her in a way that Myka will never forget, like she’ll never forget every other smile Helena has showed her.

Phillipa whispers into her ear “just one half more,” and Myka wonders how many people can see the pain weighing down her bones.

She remembers the next time they touch.  It’s the seventieth minute, and they’re two nil up.  Myka knows that the coach may substitute her off soon, the plan at this point may be to place five at the back, and it’s between her and Andrea, who will go off.  It’s a badly managed corner, and with a pump off the ball, Gerrard has sent Helena running, with just Myka, and Phillipa between Helena and their goal keeper.

If they score now, this could be just the comeback England needs.

So it all happens within two seconds.  Myka clears her head, she looks at Phillipa, and she knows she can’t let Helena get to the last defender.  It’s probably going to be Phillipa’s last World Cup, and a red card is hardly the way to end it.  But if she doesn’t stop Helena, Phillipa will.  So she looks at Helena, and she sprints.  She sprints quickly and calmly and she goes in, with what may be one of the best tackles she may have done this entire match.

She has the ball, and it’s a good thing.

It’s a good thing until Helena doesn’t get up.  It’s a good thing, until she sees Helena clutch at her ankle with a pain she knows is real.  It’s a good thing, until she’s kneeling beside Helena, her hand over hers, and “oh my god” comes out of her mouth in a choke.

“Helena, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”  Her fingers gently push the hair away from Helena’s face, and her hand can feel a swelling that tells her Helena isn’t going down for a free kick.  “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she gasps out.  “Helena-“

Before she realises, Gerrard pushes Myka off Helena and protectively shields her player.  Phillipa is pulling her away from the referee, and the two teams are face-to-face, the German team defending her like she was at no fault.  But it is, if it is her that is causing Helena to be treated by medics now, then yes, yes, yes, it’s her fault.  She keeps trying to go to Helena’s side, to hold her hand, and be by her side.  To apologise, and to tell her everything will be okay.

But Phillipa orders her to walk away.  Phillipa puts herself between Myka and Helena and orders her to walk to the end of the field, and stay by the goalkeeper until she’s allowed back.  It’s three, four minutes of the referee nervously talking to his assistants, of captains campaigning, and coaches swearing.  Helena doesn’t come back, and a substitute runs onto the field as she’s carried down the tunnel in a stretcher, her hands covering her face.  Gameplay continues, Myka just gets a yellow, and she can feel English fans all over swearing her name.

The next twenty minutes are filled with wild tackles that feel a lot like revenge, rather than a productive desire to even the score and push the match to extra time.  When the referee finally blows the whistle, she silently marches off to the locker room.

No clapping for the fans, no team huddle, no celebration.

She doesn’t want the Final if it means that Helena’s football career is over. 

* * *

They’re given a day to celebrate getting into the Final.  Just one day, and then they’re back to blackboard, to prepare against the Brazilians themselves.

She has to try really hard not to flinch when the coach taps her on the back, like everything is okay, and that whatever has happened with Helena has not left her broken and crying in Phillipa’s arms that night and the morning after.

She’s good at tackling.  She knows.  She’s made thousands of perfectly timed tackles in the span of her short career, and yet, she’s on the front page of every dodgy English paper.  Their headlines bring up this tackle, and the only other professional tackle she is not proud of.  It’s a picture of her kneeling beside Sam from a charity match back home.  Six years back, and she never quite recovered from it.

And now, there’s this.

* * *

She goes to the same dodgy bar, and she’s thankful when the man pours her a beer without so much as asking.  She drinks them quickly, and when she starts feeling tipsy, she remembers how she didn’t have dinner last night, and she didn’t have breakfast this morning.

She thinks about puking, but she knows it would be impolite (and kind of tragic), so she asks for a booth, _their_ booth, and she curls up there, and forgets about the time.

(She’s got an entire day to burn before she’s allowed back anyway.)

“Myka?”

It sounds a lot like her, but she can’t tell if it’s real.  She keeps her eyes close, willing herself not to wake up, but then the sound feels even closer.

“Myka, open your eyes, it’s me.”

When she finally opens her eyes, she sees Helena, there.  Holding her phone and glaring at it angrily, but once Myka calls out her name, those eyes turn soft, and Helena pulls her close.

“You’re walking.”

“I am.” 

* * *

They’re on the rooftop of her hotel.  They leave the bar, and Myka wordlessly follows Helena’s lead, past fire escapes and lax security.  She’s not sure how Helena figured these things out, or why they decided it was a good idea to meet at the rooftop, but they did, and Helena still has her hands in Myka’s.  Neither of them lets go.

“Hey,” she says softly, the words tickling Myka’s soul.  Myka responds by leaning closer, and gently running the pad of her thumb over the back of Helena’s hand.  She still hasn’t quite figured out how or why Helena found her, and how or why Helena is walking.

“Come here,” she says, pulling Helena in, and hugging her close, the feeling of having Helena in her arms at once jarring and comforting.  “I’m sorry,” she says, like it was something she owed Helena all along.  _Sorry_ is something she doesn’t say often.  Even on the field, the most she says is _my bad_ because taking responsibility for a mistake isn’t the same as regretting it, and there’s a lot about all of this that she regrets.

Helena laughs into her shoulder to hide the fact that her voice is cracking.  “It’s okay, we can still finish third.  One of us was going to have to lose.”

But that was never what she was talking about.  Myka shakes her head softly, and repeats the apology, pushing Helena to guess again.  It’s easier if Helena figures it out, than if Myka has to say it out loud  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s just a bad case of dead leg.  I’m walking, Myka.  It still bloody hurts, but I promise I’ll be okay.”  Myka smiles a bit at that, and just pulls Helena even closer.

“No,” she repeats softly.  She buries the word in Helena’s neck, and feels her breath make her shiver.  Helena pulls away only enough so that they can look at each other.  There’s doubt on Helena’s face, and then Myka repeats it again.   “I’m sorry, for how things ended.”  She sighs, and Helena waits.  “I’m sorry for how things ended in the Naples.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it really isn’t.  It wasn’t okay, and I knew and I didn’t say anything.”  She’s not sure why she thinks that a hot, humid night on the rooftop of a subpar hotel in Brazil is the place for her to apologise, but if she lacked courage before to acknowledge what had happened and what it meant, then being with Helena like this, gives her exactly the courage she needs.

“It’ll be okay,” Helena says, clear and confident, like there’s nothing in the world she has more faith in.  And when she leans in to kiss Myka, it’s exactly this confidence that tells Myka that maybe, just maybe, she can do something right by them after all.


	4. you caused it

They say millions watch the World Cup Final, but of those, few matter.  Players will be momentarily famous, and they’ll be remembered for a flash of brilliance on tailored grass, or for how good they look with their shirt off.  Managers stand with their fists in the air, triumphant.  It’s all fine and good.  And then the planes take off, and everyone leaves.

The thing about the World Cup is that some think it is easily the most important thing for a footballer, and at the same time, it happens only once in four years.  People lose, and they go home.  People win, and they go home.  No one stays.  They go home.

They go home, and their lives go on, with or without that medallion in their cupboard.

(This is why people retire from the international stage long before they retire from their clubs.  It’s not _just_ the money.)

They go home, and their lives go on.

Myka reminds herself of this as she repeats Helena’s words in her head.

“I fly out with the team the day after the Final.”

“Of course.”

It may only be for a moment’s glory.  But today, that’s all she has.

* * *

“It’s okay,” Myka says, as the medic runs up to her.  She repeats the words, “it’s okay,” again, when he tries to chaperone her off.  Blood is running down the side of her head and onto her ear, and Myka can also feel the gash burn where her sweat touches raw flesh.  Phillipa runs to her side, and all she says is, “I can do this.”

There are staples in her hair, the referee blows the whistle, and she’s off running again.

* * *

Miriam is the one who scores.  A perfect cross comes from the left side as Myka is running forward in huge strides.  And in front of her, she sees Luiz, and from her face, Myka knows she _knows_ she should be marking Miriam.  Her voice cuts across the madness as Luiz yells Götze before the crowd does, but for hugely different reasons.

When the ball hits the back of the net, the crowd roars in a way that cannot be recreated anywhere.  They say nights like this are different, nights like this the stadium comes alive – it literally moves to the sound of the crowd and the way they burst into celebration.  They say the fans themselves can really be the twelfth man on nights like this.

(Helena has told her about Anfield, and before this, she has always doubted.  Now, she doesn’t doubt.  Now, she gets it.)

She hears Miriam celebrating by the flag, and she runs to join the pile.  There are team-mates above her and below her and for a moment she feels like she doesn’t breathe.

It feels like she doesn’t breathe for the rest of the match either.

They’re defending a one-goal lead and she plays through the match with a sort of paranoid fear.  Every tackle feels more important, every free kick more disastrous, every touch of the ball, in some way, _sacred_.

Myka doesn’t pant even if she’s tired, Myka doesn’t go down even if she’s badly tackled.  Myka doesn’t let herself be vulnerable, because one moment of vulnerability is enough to bring down the whole team.

She’s stronger than she ever has been.

And then the whistle blows.  The whistle blows and she falls to her knees.

She falls to her knees and breathes.

She falls to her knees, and _cries_.

* * *

Phillipa comes up to her and takes her in a hug that’s so warm and comforting it shouldn’t be real.  She has never been like this before; she has always been this strong, tough person, but today, with tears of joy on Phillipa’s face and a real tight hug around her, Phillipa feels more like a sister than a captain.

When she whispers in Myka’s ear, “I’m so proud of you”, it feels better than any goal she has ever scored.

It’s a moment she will never let go. 

* * *

Everyone’s husbands and boyfriends are around.  There are children on the pitch, there are men on a field only the best of women play.  There are people for each and every one of her team-mates.

They adopt her like she’s not just a team-mate, but family.

Claude even lets her play with the children.

But Myka’s eyes still wander.  Myka’s eyes wander.

They wander until she sees Helena by the VIP box, gazing at her with a soft fondness in her eyes.

And that’s when Myka realises that even her brain tells her that Helena is trouble, all she _really_ knows is that Helena feels like home. 

* * *

Her body is pressed against Helena’s, and her body shudders at the feeling of cold metal against her back.  “Helena,” she kisses her again, and Helena moans into it.  It’s needy and desperate, and it’s almost enough for them to forget that they’re just down the tunnel, and that a really enthusiastic reporter would still find them.

(She’s willing to bet that already, everyone is wondering why she’s not on the field, celebrating like the rest of the team.)

“Helena,” she breathes out again, and this time Helena stops, to look at her.  There is simply no one who looks as beautiful as Helena right now, and there’s simply no one Myka wants but her.

They say the World Cup happens in a moment, that people go home, and their lives go on.

She wants this moment to last forever.

“Please,” it takes her all her courage to use these words, “please, don’t go.”  Myka rasps out, and it’s desperate, and painful, and it’s just- it’s vulnerable.  She’s always vulnerable in a way she would never willingly let herself be, but it’s Helena, and she’s  just- she’s irresistible.

Helena is actually crying when she says, “don’t ask me that, Myka.”  The words escape her in a choke, and there is a sadness that plagues every single one, “not now, not today, and not like this.”

* * *

She goes back to Germany a winner.  They have a tour and the fans are cheering and she’s wearing the medal everywhere she goes.

She wears the medal like it’s the one thing that really, of all things, manages to define her in this time.

It’s all okay, at first.  It’s okay because wearing the medal reminds her of the World Cup.  It reminds her of the pride of a country that adopted her, and of a team that backed her like family, and of a captain who carried her pain on her shoulders like it was her duty.  It’s okay because it’s like time is frozen and all they have on their minds is their white jersey and adding one more star to their crest.

It’s okay because it’s like she’s still there, there with Helena, in that dinghy bar, laughing.

And then it’s not okay anymore.

Before anyone blinks, Miriam is off to Real Madrid.  New jerseys are printed and handed out – these ones have four stars instead of three, and they are told to wear it out as soon as they can.  The Chancellor invites them for a meal, and she smiles a lot more than anyone is used to seeing.  Her manager tells her she needs to stop moping and start attending tryouts if she is to capitalise on any of her World Cup fame at all.

Just like that, it’s not okay anymore. 

* * *

Phillipa calls her and tells her how great Bayern Munich will be for her.  Myka listens, attentively, partly out of respect, and partly because she knows that Phillipa will, of all things, give her good advice.  And she nearly signs.  She nearly signs because Munich will be a fresh start, and she knows that Napoli needs her transfer fee more than they need her.

And then Alonso calls.  Alonso calls and even Phillipa tells her to think twice.

Alonso calls and there’s a lot that she says.  She speaks of the culture at Real Madrid, she speaks of how good Sami has performed since the transfer.  She speaks of the beauty of La Liga.  She speaks of how much Myka could learn from Alonso – there are only that many footballers with the kind of vision needed to play their position, and Alonso laughs fondly when she says the Old Guard of herself, Gerrard, and Pirlo, are quickly retiring.  Alonso calls and she says, “I want you to have my jersey when I retire.”

There can be many words said, and then there are those that move worlds.

_I want you to have my jersey when I retire._

Those words from a player like Alonso?  They bring Myka to Madrid.

They bring her signature to a dotted line.

And just like that, Myka Bering plays for Real Madrid.

* * *

Was she supposed to call?  Or was Helena supposed to call?  Myka starts to think that she’ll never know.  Weeks pass and Helena’s still at Liverpool, with Brenda unwilling to sell and Helena undecided.  Weeks pass and she’s suddenly developing a routine that involves extra trainings and staying in a house that’s at once too big, and too small.  If this is moving on, she’s terrible at it.

She’s terrible at it, but she’s great at football.

So she plays football, and pretends that the way she misses Helena doesn’t cripple her spirit.  She pretends that it doesn’t hurt to hear Alonso talk of her glory days at Liverpool and she pretends that it’s still possibly to continue living without the home she has finally found.

Myka pretends, and it gets easier for everyone around her.

And then one day she steps around the corner, and there, standing on her doorstep, is Helena. 

* * *

“Don’t do this, Myka, please, hear me out.” Helena pleads, and some part of Myka aches in a way that she’s not proud of.  She will never not hate how Helena can just disarm all her defences, and she will never not hate how much she loves Helena for it.

“I asked you to stay, and you left.”  Myka turns around to face Helena, and she’s crying.  Tears are pouring down her face, and she can feel the pain physically seeping out of her body as she clenches her fists.  “I asked you to _stay_ ,” her voice breaks, and Helena moves closer.  “But you left,” it comes out in a gasp of air, “ _left_.”

“I’m sorry,” Helena whispers.  “I’m sorry,” she tries again, and this time Myka lets her come close, and she feels the strength in Helena’s arms pull her together.  As she always does.

“Ask again,” Helena pleads, and Myka turns her gaze away.  “Ask again, please” Helena pleads, and if Myka doesn’t hear the desperation in her voice, she feels it in the way Helena’s body trembles with fear, fear that this may be the very last time she may touch Myka, ever.

Myka breathes in deep, and it’s with an unrivalled sense of vulnerability that she repeats those words.

“Please, don’t go.”

“I won’t.  I’ll stay.”

Myka looks up at Helena, in shock, as though she could have expected any answer other than this.  “I’ll stay,” Helena repeats.  From her bag, Helena puts out a jersey.  It’s red and white and it has “H.G.” printed on its back.  “Atlético,” Myka whispers, almost in awe, “I never knew.”

Helena leans in for a kiss, one that is soft, and gentle, and lasting.  “No, not Atlético.  I didn’t come here for the club, for my career.  I came here for Madrid.”  She pauses, and meets Myka’s gaze as she continues, her voice not once trembling.

“I came here for you.”


End file.
